


Silk and Satin

by luninosity



Category: Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Bottom Sebastian Stan, Coming in Panties, Consensual Kink, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Light Dom/sub, Lingerie, M/M, Moving In Together, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:34:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29203683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: Sebastian does a photo shoot. Lingerie is involved. And then he and Chris enjoy some of those outfits even more, at home...
Relationships: Chris Evans/Sebastian Stan
Comments: 17
Kudos: 188





	Silk and Satin

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Словно шелк и атлас [Silk and Satin]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29908191) by [Katherine93](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katherine93/pseuds/Katherine93)



> Written for my tumblr anon who sent a lovely and very inspiring ask about Seb modeling lingerie! Thank you for this!
> 
> Title from the Stand Atlantic song of that name, though thematically it doesn't really work - but the title was too perfect! The Stand Atlantic song that's a better soundtrack, though, is "Tonight We Stay." (I've been listening to them lately, can you tell?)

Sebastian looks at the transparent pink fabric. And the lacy panties. And the delicate diaphanous garter. They all look back at him, expectant.

“Okay,” he says aloud. “Why not.” Outside the rain rustles and hums, encouraging.

He’d said yes to a modeling contract—a quick shoot, one day, one clothing line—without really reading the fine print, because he likes the brand and he honestly does sometimes wear their undershirts, lounge pants, comfortable at-home coziness. He doesn’t care about looking ridiculous, which is so often a condition of modeling photo shoots, and he likes supporting a clothing line that gives back to charity. All of that’s true.

He hadn’t realized they’d asked for a lingerie shoot. He plays with supple silk, lets a gauzy fluttering top slide over his hands like water.

Well, he doesn’t mind. After all, he likes dressing up—and memories of fantasy-inspired coats and rings, see-through aquamarine shirts, clinging trousers, bubble up and suggest previous pleasures—and he likes looking good. He’s spent years learning to love himself and his body; it’s not always easy, but these days he kind of likes the person he sees in the mirror.

Or in the magazine spread. Or in the news article, so many of which will likely happen after this.

He grins. The rain grins too, in splashes and drips. Sebastian Stan, in lingerie. Being himself, and enjoying it.

He yanks off his shirt. Tosses it at a hanger. Steps out of his pants.

The air’s cold and his nipples get hard, sharp with chilly atmosphere and also excitement. He feels like excitement: holiday mornings, brightness, color and texture and the knowledge that he’s going to pose on camera in tantalizing scraps of lace and satin and feathers.

He wonders what Chris’ll think. He and Chris are…something. They have been for a while now: not giving it a name, letting it be, but that’s also bright and light and feathery, like joy trailing along his bones. He falls into Chris’s orbit and Chris’s bed the way he’d once fallen into Chris’s arms on set: laughing, accidentally tripping over nothing at all during a piece of fight choreography, suddenly breathlessly aware of Chris catching him and the strength in superhero arms and the heat in Chris’s eyes and the shape of Chris’s mouth when saying Sebastian’s name.

Chris had asked whether he was all right, then. Had asked it again, both of them shivery and naked and yearning, Chris’s fingers buried in Sebastian’s body and opening him up. Making him ready. Claiming him.

They say _I love you,_ and they’ve said it for years, though they say it almost casually: I love you, I love the rain, I love blueberries, I love dogs and hiking and classic Disney movies. Sebastian knows Chris loves the world; he’s honored to be included in that love. He can’t ask for anything more. So much already. So lucky.

Thinking of Chris, he smiles. Dressed in pale rose-hued silk, fabric smooth over his chest and clinging across his cock and balls, he steps out from behind the changing screen.

The set’s plush and opulent, nineteenth-century inspired, lots of rich drapes and pillows tumbling over a four-poster bed. There’s a luxurious faux-fur rug on the floor, black and fluffy; there’s even a fake fireplace with light behind it. Sebastian, who shamelessly adores velvet and drama and indulgences, wants to roll around in all of it.

He smiles at the photographer. He says hi. They’ve talked already, before he went to change—chatting about this shoot and the wardrobe—and she’s enthusiastic and talented and also a Captain America fan, which means she obviously has good taste. Her assistant’s fiddling with lights; he’s got a small Iron Man arc reactor tattoo at the edge of a rolled-up shirtsleeve, which Sebastian immediately and appropriately mocks. The assistant laughs and tells him that there’ll be an Avengers-inspired outfit, later.

Sebastian hops onto the bed. Poses, as directed. Bathed in light: lighting from the camera set-up, but also the cool joyous pale glimmer of New York City rain, beyond big windows. The world’s drenched in water and steel and concrete and tapdancing drops.

He lounges, spread out across rumpled sheets. He gets up on both knees and swings a pillow, a mock fight for the camera-click. He sits with one leg dangling off the bed, the other folded up: drawing blatant attention to the flutter of sunrise-pink see-through fabric along his torso, the stretch of satin and lace over his cock, the heavy bulge. He’s himself, and he feels deliciously aware of it: his cock’s half-hard, loving sensation, loving the display.

He hadn’t known just how much he’d like this. It’s decadent, opulent, almost sinful in the sweetness, the way he’s enjoying it so much. He knows people’ll see this photo shoot, see him loving it; the heat of the knowledge sends a shiver down his spine.

He’s covered up, of course—nothing actually pornographic, nothing beyond the average lingerie modeling spread. He isn’t showing off anything—except he’s showing off everything. Himself, his enjoyment, the small shy pride he feels when he knows he looks good and feels good. The photographer tells him he’s doing great, he’s clearly happy, he’s making it easy; he laughs out of sheer delight, and poses with both legs kicking up in the air.

He changes outfits: a slinky black ensemble, a tight scarlet corset, a deep cerulean all-lace outfit that hugs his hips. He sprawls on the faux-fur rug; he stands in front of the fake fireplace so that the light glows through his dainty pure white feathery top and cascades along his bare thighs. He lets a strap slip down along one arm and bats his eyes at the camera lens: mock dismay, a moment of staged disarray, intimate and revealingly imperfect.

He puts on a shimmery dark grey and gold outfit, reminiscent of the Winter Soldier arm; they’ve designed that one for him, they tell him. It’s got a lace-up bodice, and they pull it tight: shaping his waist, framing his chest. His panties are also dark grey, with gold thread, and they feel satiny and slippery, and he wants to run a hand over himself, wants to feel his cock hardening and stiffening under delicate fabric, wants to—

He doesn’t, because he’s professional. And he likes—loves—this job, today. He’s being a model; he’ll sell this line.

He bites his lip, coquettish, kittenish. He holds up a fold of sheet, pretending innocence. Of course the lines of his body are visible anyway, the side silhouette.

He slips in and out of other outfits: indigo with sequined edges, and then navy and red and white, a Captain America theme, which makes him laugh. That one’s even got a little ruffled skirt. He strikes a pin-up pose against one of the bed’s posts, hips up and out, beckoning.

The rainstorm twirls and laughs and plays along, and Sebastian loves every minute. He comes over to see some of the photographs, near the end; the photographer tells him he’s made her job simple, because he’s so obviously having fun.

He is. He looks at one of the photos: himself in the ruffled blue-and-red polka-dot skirt and matching top, one leg up on the bed, stretching. He looks like someone utterly comfortable in his outfit, in his skin.

They tell him he can keep some of the outfits—they’re intimate wear, and they’re made for him, and it’d be an honor if he wanted them. Sebastian wants to keep them all, but they did say _some_ , so he chooses five: the Captain America outfit, the virginal angelic white, the scarlet corset and panties, the all-lace cerulean blue, and of course the glorious satiny grey-and-gold silkiness, with front laces. He leaves with a large gift box and a skip in his step, because his boots just want to bounce around: he’s filled up with anticipation, giddy secret arousal, awareness that he’s pretty and attractive and people seem to like him in lingerie, or at least the photographer says they will. She says he’s done well, he’s so good; and the praise rushes down his back and flows into his head like strong wine, like sunshine, intoxicating and golden.

He belongs to Chris, with Chris, of course—praise is just praise, from anyone else. But he’s always craved it, in some lonely wistful piece of himself: he wants to be good, wants to be someone’s, wants to give all of himself and be caught and held.

Chris does that, sometimes. Chris does that often, though they also don’t talk about that, much. Mutually compatible—they’d figured that out early on. Chris loves taking care of people, making sure everything’s just right, the world’s in place and ticking along, all knots and spankings and thorough fuckings are exactly what Sebastian needs. And Sebastian does need. Oh, he does.

Right now they’re in New York because Sebastian had this photo shoot and because Chris had an interview to do anyway, a congressman who could only schedule this week and the New York location. Sebastian loves the city, though he also loves the quiet tranquility of Chris’s home, that oasis of Boston country comfort, full of thick knitted blankets and clean lines and friendly wood. He could live there, he thinks: it feels like home, like a place to land, like the first sip of coffee on a snowy morning when Chris hands him a mug and smiles.

He doesn’t know whether Chris knows that. He thinks he’s been obvious— _I love it here_ , he’d said last time—but he does also love New York and the life and the crackle and the energy in the air, the feeling that’s like noplace else, quick and vibrant as shooting stars. He could live with Chris and they could visit New York, decently often, maybe; he’d be okay with that. He doesn’t think Chris loves the city the way he does, though; neither of them’s brought up moving in together, and Sebastian won’t ask if Chris doesn’t mention it. Being grateful for what he has. Not pushing.

Anyway, Chris doesn’t seem to mind sometimes coming over to Sebastian’s place, with the messy bookshelves and city view and large comfortable couch and single bedroom. It’s a very nice bed. Sebastian’s got priorities.

Chris isn’t home yet when he gets back, so he shakes off rain and kicks off his boots and wanders out to the tiny kitchen, balancing the large box. He sets it on a chair. He makes coffee. He listens to the rustle of the rain, water sliding and spilling and making friends with glass and brick and gutters and eaves. His hands warm up, cupping an oversized mug; his toes’re warm in striped socks.

He looks at the box. He takes a sip of coffee, hot and black. He wiggles his toes.

He doesn’t know how long Chris’ll be. He’s home almost exactly when he’d guessed he’d be done: mid-afternoon, the lazy indulgent slide of the day toward evening but not quite there yet. He could go to the gym; he’s scheduled to go tomorrow, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t drop in. He could try to bake something; he’s not the best in a kitchen, repertoire mostly limited to chicken breasts and eggs and interesting drinks, but he’s not _terrible_ , and he’s trying to learn, because Chris likes domestic homey recipes. Sebastian likes bananas, and he’s attempted banana muffins twice. Chris loyally eats them all, with a smile.

He considers bananas. He sips more coffee. He taps fingers over his mug: a rhythm. He eyes his box.

He texts Chris: _I’m home, it went great, kind of a surprise as far as outfits, tell you later, how’s your day been?_

Chris answers immediately, which is a nice glowy warm feeling, a small private heat nestled up inside Sebastian’s heart. _Tell me all about it tonight! Maybe another half hour here, wrapping up, some good talking points. Pizza later? From wherever you want, you’re the New York pizza expert!_ Plus a heart, because that’s how Chris texts: full of emotion. Hearts for Sebastian, hearts for pizza. Overflowing with love.

Sebastian sends back the pizza slice emoji and a thumbs up, as thunder erupts beyond his window. He jumps slightly, but not much: only not expecting it. He does love storms. They’re made of exuberance.

Half an hour. He glances at his box again.

He finishes his coffee. He rubs a thumb over the mug, setting it down: smooth curved porcelain, familiar against his fingertip. He licks his lips.

He grabs the box. He runs upstairs.

He’s not worried about Chris coming home and catching him, as such—hell, Chris has told him to jerk off before in the bedroom, has watched him do it, has ordered him to kneel and stroke his cock and rub himself against Chris’s leg until Sebastian comes like that, whimpering and shuddering, spurting helplessly all over Chris’s pants as Chris’s hand tightens in his hair and Chris’s voice tells him he’s done well. Chris won’t mind Sebastian enjoying himself.

It’s just the lingerie question. Which isn’t really a question, Chris’ll probably be good with that too, but Sebastian hasn’t exactly explained the outfit surprise yet. He should maybe do that before springing it on the man he loves. Which doesn’t mean he can’t get himself off right now, all dressed up and feeling pretty.

And then he can do it again. _With_ Chris. He grins. Flings the box open.

He slips into the silky grey set, because he loves the feel of it and the way the laces draw attention to his waist. His cock’s hard and hot, stretching the fabric of the panties, obscene and tantalizing. He tugs the laces, pulling them: this one’s not quite a corset, not too restrictive, but he can imagine it, and keep the idea for the future. The straps brush his skin, and the top caresses his chest; it’s made for him, and it’s his, and he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and smiles.

He does look good. Rumpled hair, big eyes, waist accented, thighs long and lean and framed by dark grey silk. Cock pushing up and leaking already: there’s a darker damp spot growing.

He runs a hand over himself. He shivers. He moans, out loud. He’s sometimes loud in bed and sometimes not; depends on the day, the mood, how deep in his head he is, whether he’s shrieking and begging and screaming out Chris’s name or simply letting go and getting all soft and hazy and floaty, maybe some unfocused drowsy noises or happy sounds but mostly quiet, lost in pleasure.

Right now he feels a little naughty, a little wicked, like he’s getting away with something, even though he isn’t really. It’s his apartment and his lingerie, and his dick so fat and full as he rubs at it through his panties, and his vibrating dildo, which he’s pulling out from the drawer under the bed, along with lube.

Chris knows about the toy collection. Chris has used some of them on him, and Sebastian smiles at the memory. Himself tied to the bed, himself squirming futilely as Chris teases him: yes. An old-fashioned paddle, warming his skin; a giant plug that stretches him impossibly wide with its girth; heat and cold, making him moan and sob: all of that, yes.

He dives onto his bed. Spreads his legs. Pinches his left nipple, through silk: liking the hot sharp spark of the sensation.

The rain sings, coaxing him on.

He strokes a hand over his stomach, over laces and ribbons. He fondles his cock, his balls: heavy weights a paradox under weightless fabric. The contrast makes him groan; his shaft jumps, stirs, drips wetness into his panties. He rubs at the spot, at the head. That feels good too, in a rough exciting way: wet fabric against sensitive flesh.

He does it again, because he wants to. His cock grows wetter, and the fabric sticks to the slit, and it’s so nice, and he laughs briefly, hips rocking up against his hand.

He wants his panties on, wants to feel this good and this sweet and this pretty when he comes, but he also wants to get fucked; his hole flutters, clenches, needs. He pulls the silk to one side, and circles the opening of his body with a finger. He can see himself in the mirror, knees bent on his bed, pink curl of muscle exposed even as he’s all dressed up everyplace else. He quivers, a tremulous heartbeat of want and raw need, at that sight.

He works himself open, with lube: getting his hole slippery and ready, making it all nice and easy. It’s messy, and some gets on the panties and his sheets, but he doesn’t care. He feels so good, and his fingers feel good there; he grabs the dildo, presses it to himself, just rocks against it for a second: feeling it rub at his hole.

He whimpers aloud, in time with the crash of thunder.

He pushes the dildo inside. It’s a big one, long and large; it makes him feel full and happy. He pumps it in and out, playing with himself, listening to his hole making wet slick sounds around the toy. He angles it just right and works that spot deep inside, hips jerking, mouth letting out a sudden low keening sound. His cock’s leaking continuously now, so wet and so eager, messing his pretty panties.

This one’s a vibrating dildo, of course; Sebastian loves sensation and stimulation. He presses the button. Turns it on: only on low, but it startles him anyway, makes him let out a little gut-punched grunt of pleasure. The vibration’s perfect, right on that place he needs it, and he’s gasping and squirming on the bed, legs falling even more open, lingerie top riding up to bare his stomach, a strap sliding down his arm.

He turns the vibration up. More. More. Yes. Yes, yes, oh god yes; and he’s crying out, back arching, hair getting in his face, thighs tensing. There, _yes_ , he’s feeling everything, feeling it _all_ , head spinning—he’s going to come, he’s going to come like this, dressed up in pretty lingerie and spurting into his panties, fucking himself with a vibrator in his hole, cock untouched aside from being rubbed by silky fabric—he’s going to come because he can’t stop it, can’t _not_ come, because he’s helpless against the swell and gathering and gush of ecstasy—

He shudders and jolts and cries out. His mouth stays open after, silent with rapture. He’s coming, oh god, he’s coming—it’s a billowing wild wave of white heat, it rises and peaks and coils and bursts, and he’s convulsing and crying out and spilling more slick sticky release into his panties and onto himself. The feeling, that awareness, makes him sob and spasm and twitch again, and he’s coming _again_ , or maybe he hasn’t stopped, one huge flowing melting rush that goes on and on.

He whimpers, trembling. He shifts his hips, loving the way the vibrator moves inside him. It keeps him stuffed full, pulsating there, relentless; his body’s tingling, and he feels loose and happy and easy, made for this, made to be dressed up and opened up and fucked until he comes all over himself, again and again.

He mumbles, incoherent now. He brushes his other hand across his chest, and finds his nipple again. The fabric’s in disarray, so the small nub’s peeking out, taut and hard. He pinches it into even more hardness, rolling, tugging; his mouth makes a noise, somewhere between a whine and a soft little coo, tiny and breathy.

His fingers reach to tug at fabric, at laces. He likes the feeling of that: his skin shivers at the whisper of silk and ribbons over his stomach, his muscles. His cock stirs, dripping.

He keeps rocking his hips, pumping the vibrator inside himself. He likes it, especially as his hole tightens and clenches and relaxes; he likes the way that, when he moves just right, the world gets all glittery and foggy, and his semi-hard cock suddenly spurts a little more wetness. He does it again, and giggles aloud, tipsily.

It’s so good, almost endless, like he’s just coming and coming, forcing more fluid to dribble out, soaking his panties; when he does it more and faster, the glittery feelings build higher and higher, and all at once he’s shaking and flying apart, tipping over some final edge, mouth hanging open and slack as his legs jerk against the bed.

He can’t even think now, empty of everything except brilliant bright mindless pleasure. He’s vaguely aware he’s drooling a bit, head tossing against the bed. He’s drifting amid luminous heights, one hand constantly fondling his cock through the panties.

He’s so wet and sticky and it feels so filthy and so good, rubbing at himself, at the head and the shaft. His panties cling to the slit of his cock, right where all the nice wetness keeps dribbling out, and he presses his thumb over it, a small rocking motion that stretches the slit wider, so that the fabric nudges inside a fraction, drenched in his come and now rubbing _in him_. He whimpers and twitches and comes some more, at that.

The thunder rumbles and booms, and the air tastes of rain and sex and release when he pants for breath. Sebastian wants to stay here like this forever, timeless, feeling good. He eases the vibrator down to low, barely on, keeping him floating and adrift, just enough.

He wants more, of course—he wants Chris, and oh his hole clenches and his body squirms at the thought of Chris, Chris’s hands on him, Chris lovingly fucking him while Sebastian’s this sensitive and spent—

And even as he’s thinking that, as he’s imagining, Chris’s voice gasps, “ _Seb_ —”

Sebastian moans because he can’t help it when Chris says his name, but then it registers, the realization smashing hard through cotton-puff rainbows, and he hauls his head up to gaze at the bedroom doorway—

Chris. Standing there. Filling up the space. Dressed in jeans and cozy warm red flannel, barefoot because his shoes’re downstairs, because it’s been long enough that he’s come home, and Sebastian’s been lost in a haze of climax and dazed ecstasy and hadn’t even heard, and now Chris is _here_ —

“Well.” Chris is starting to grin, now: slow and suggestive, full of meaningful heat. “Looks like you’re having a good day, aren’t you, sweet boy? Didn’t know you liked this, Seb.”

Sebastian breathes, “They said…said I could take some home, from the photo shoot,” and gives his cock a squeeze and a stroke, because Chris is watching his hand, and oh yes, they’re doing this now, yes.

Chris steps into the bedroom, accompanied by a cloudburst of storm. The weather’s excited too, Sebastian’s equally cloudy thoughts conclude.

Chris stops next to the bed. Reaches out. Runs a hand over Sebastian’s stomach and hip: exploring the murmur of silk. “Interesting photo shoot.”

“Lingerie,” Sebastian whispers.

“And you liked it.” Chris slips a finger under the strap of the top, tugging it down along Sebastian’s arm. “Liked it so much you had to come home and take care of yourself. Couldn’t wait for me, could you? So impatient, Seb.”

“Please,” Sebastian begs, unsure what he’s begging for. “Please, please…Chris…I’m yours, I’m all yours, I’m sorry, I had to, I needed—I felt so good, it feels so good, I just needed to come, needed to—” His hips jerk, unbidden: he’s still got the vibrator buried inside him, and his other hand’s cupping his sticky semi-soft cock, and Chris’s hand’s toying with his lingerie strap, and he loses all his words in a desperate groan, all at once.

“You just had to,” Chris muses. “You really do like it, don’t you, sweet boy? Looking all pretty, feeling so good…good enough you just had to come in your panties, looks like. Did you come in your pretty little panties, Sebastian?”

“Yes,” Sebastian moans. “Yes, yes, yes—god, Chris, yes—so good, I feel so good, I love it—”

“Say it, baby.” Chris sits down beside him, still dressed; Chris’s big hand lands atop Sebastian’s, over his spent cock, adding more weight. Sebastian trembles, and can’t help lifting his hips into the touch.

He mumbles, “Wanted to come…had to come…so much, coming so much, in my…my panties, coming all over, Chris, feels so nice, coming so much,” and his voice sounds slurred, dreamy, strange.

“Yeah?” Chris squeezes Sebastian’s hand, then pushes it out of the way: he lifts Sebastian’s ruined panties up to inspect the mess there, the puddles and spurts and stickiness from his reddened cock. “You sure did, baby. Bet you’re feelin’ real nice, after coming all over yourself like that. Always so eager for it, aren’t you, Seb? When you’re feeling good, the way you do when I get my fingers in you, and you go all soft and sweet, and you’ll just come on the spot, just from me playin’ with you…”

Sebastian whimpers, mind blank, because Chris has slipped a hand into his panties and is fondling his spent slippery cock, stroking him—and watching the motion beneath the fabric, details hidden by wet silk, only the movement of Chris’s hand visible.

Chris says, “I like it too, baby, you know that? Love seein’ you like this…love knowing you’re feeling good about yourself, knowing you look so pretty and you want this, knowing you’re happy…god, I fucking love you, Seb.” Rain rattles the windowpane, an underscore for emphasis.

“Love you,” Sebastian manages in response. He does. He loves Chris so, so much. He wants Chris to be happy, so happy, forever and always. He’ll do anything, be anything, offer up everything he is, for Chris. “Love you…so much, Chris…yours. All yours. All of me.”

“Yeah.” Chris strokes his cock some more, leisurely, affectionate. His eyes are a little damp, unless Sebastian’s vision’s blurry, which might be the case. “I know, baby. I know. Want you to come for me, Seb. Want to see you come, like this. One more.”

“Can’t,” Sebastian protests. “I can’t…so much…it’s so much…” But even as he says so his body’s gathering itself up, reacting, anticipating; he doesn’t know what’s left, but he knows he’ll end up spilling it all for Chris, coming again, because Chris wants him to.

“I think you can,” Chris tells him. “Just one more, baby. So I can see it. You can do that, Seb. My sweet Sebastian. My good boy. You can be good for me.”

Sebastian whimpers some more, legs moving restlessly against the sheets. His hole feels stretched, stuffed, kept open by the vibrator. His cock’s tender, even achy, but in a fabulous glittery pain-pleasure way.

He wants to be good. He wants to come for Chris. He feels…he feels like he can. He can come like this, in his panties, lingerie straps falling against his shoulders, with Chris watching him.

He pants, breathless. He moves against Chris’s hand as it caresses his cock. Everything’s distant and hazy and yet electric and sparking, shocks of raw sensation through dim veils. Silky, he thinks, like his lingerie; and he giggles at the thought, mouth staying open after, eyes losing focus. His hands flop against the bed, limbs uncoordinated and slack.

Chris begins doing something else. Something moves, stirs to life, hums and purrs inside him. The vibrator, that rigid unforgiving length.

Chris has turned it up again, and is fucking him with it: plunging it in and out, pushing it deep, as Sebastian’s hole clutches and clings to the girth, muscle giving way and yielding to each thrust. He knows what Chris is seeing: the pink stretch of his rim, messy with lube, and the thick base of the toy filling him up. That understanding almost feels like an orgasm, a shining ripple of arousal that makes his breath catch, makes him spasm and sob.

Chris whispers, “So good, Seb, so sweet, so pretty…go on, baby, come for me, come all over your panties, get them all nice and wet one more time, show me how good you feel,” and his big hand’s rubbing Sebastian’s cock, ceaselessly and powerfully, not letting up, over and over and over amid all the mess and fluids and slick; and his _other_ hand’s keeping the vibrator buried inside Sebastian’s twitching body, turning it up more and more, and it’s so much, it’s too much, it’s bearing down and crashing over him, a tidal wave, an onslaught—

His muscles tighten, body arching, writhing, convulsing—he’s coming, god, he’s coming, or he thinks he is, but he _can’t_ think, as liquid spurts weakly from his poor throbbing cock and drips down onto Chris hand, as his hole clenches wildly, as the world goes clear and white as diamonds and silver as rain-light, everything in him pounding and pulsing and coming open and rushing out.

He lies utterly limp, after: drowsy, wholly emptied, indistinct. He feels Chris stroking his cock, playing with him; it’s an odd sensation, frayed at the edges, full of static. He feels Chris turn off the vibrator but leave it shoved deep into him; he senses more than sees Chris moving to kneel above him, jeans undone now, the long thick shaft of his dick jutting out, cupped by one hand.

Chris hasn’t even undressed, otherwise; that’s nice too though, Sebastian’s foggy head decides. Chris is so nice. So good. Taking charge, knowing what Sebastian needs, taking good care of him. Chris likes him in pretty lingerie. Chris likes seeing him come. He came in his panties, got them all wet one more time, for Chris.

His body twitches with aftershocks, uncontrolled, inadvertent. He gazes blurrily up at Chris.

Chris says, voice rough and low and rumbly, tangible against Sebastian’s skin, “That was so good, Sebastian, you’re so good for me, such a good boy…knew you could, knew you wanted to come for me, show me how good and how pretty you feel…oh, fuck, baby, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come all over your pretty little outfit, Seb, all over you—oh _fuck_ —” and he _is_ coming, long hot streaks of release that splash all across Sebastian’s exhausted quivering body, over his silky lingerie top and exposed stomach where fabric’s slid up, over the edge where Sebastian’s nipples are showing against dark grey and gold thread.

It feels so right, so hot and messy and wonderful; Chris loves him, thinks he looks pretty, thinks he’s been good, deserving of this. Chris groans, a few final spurts landing over Sebastian’s chest and delicate fabric. Sebastian moans too, barely audible, transported by delight.

Chris reaches down. Drags a fingertip through the splash across Sebastian’s chest, and over the ribbons: smearing it all. “So fucking gorgeous, Seb…so fucking _perfect_ , Jesus, I can’t even…” He curls a finger into the ribbons and tugs; Sebastian whimpers instinctively.

“You like that too,” Chris murmurs, and slips his fingers into Sebastian’s mouth. They taste like him, like his climax; Sebastian suckles at them dreamily. “Bet you’d look good in a corset, Seb…want me to buy you a corset? Dress you up some more, make you come all over that outfit too? Kinda want to see you come with me in you, next time…you in something all pretty and silky, and me getting to fuck you like that…”

Sebastian licks and sucks at Chris’s fingers. They’re large and familiar, and he likes having his mouth full, and Chris doesn’t care that he’s messy and clumsy right now.

“Yeah,” Chris says. “Yeah, we’re gonna do that. Want to see you come all over yourself, mess up your next pretty outfit, just from my dick inside you, fucking you real good, Seb, the way you like it.”

Sebastian moans softly around Chris’s fingers in his mouth, drooling and sloppy, hanging on the words and the fantasy. He wants that. He wants that so much.

“Oh, Seb,” Chris says quietly, tender and fond and full of love; and he fucks Sebastian’s mouth a little with his fingers, thrusting them in and out a few times. “Oh, sweetheart. I love you, y’know? So much it fuckin’ terrifies me. You’re like—you’re just, fuck, everything. You’re everything. You trust me with it all, all of you, like you trust me with this, right now…you let me in and you let me see you, you tell me you love my place back home when I know you love New York, you try to bake muffins because I said I liked them one time…you just give and you give, that whole big heart, and I sometimes look at you and I don’t know how I got this lucky, how I get to be this damn happy, y’know? I don’t know how to even deserve you. I’d give you the fucking moon if I knew how. Just ask me for it. Anything. Ask me. I’m all yours. I’m so much fucking yours, everything I am, you got all of me.”

The rain patters idly across the window-glass, and drips down. The bed’s calm and supportive; Sebastian’s tired and wrung out and full of incandescence, snug and safe and secure in the sound of Chris’s voice, the heat of Chris beside him.

Chris pauses, then, and swipes his free hand over his eyes, and then laughs, open and honest. “Not that you’re hearing much of that, I’m guessing, right now? Kinda put you through a lot, I know, I’m sorry, never mind, I’m over here getting all emotional and shit, ignore that, and we’re gonna get you cleaned up, okay? Just gonna take care of you for a while.”

Sebastian’s eyelids are heavy, and he wants to sink into the deep golden liquor that’s suffusing his bones, but he also wants to answer. It’s important. But he _also_ wants to keep mouthing and suckling at Chris’s fingers, because Chris has given him that task.

But Chris slips them out, and then tenderly carefully peels off Sebastian’s come-soaked lingerie, steadying and manhandling Sebastian’s useless limbs and honeyed languid body. Chris takes care of it all, cleaning him all over, his stomach and face and limp cock.

Sebastian whimpers briefly at that last one. It’s not that it hurts, or maybe it does; it’s overwhelming, whatever it is. He’s soft in Chris’s hands, cock-slit sore and sticky and a little stretched and still wet; he’s crying suddenly, only a few surprised ready tears, right at the surface.

“Oh, no—oh, Seb, shh, it’s okay, I’m here, I’m right here—I’ve got you—” Chris gathers him close, holds him tight, strokes his hair. Chris is naked now too—Sebastian doesn’t know when that happened, but it feels exactly right, lots of large muscular Chris to cuddle up against, as he trembles and wakes up more and gets the world back into some sort of focus.

Chris sounds a little concerned and a lot like someone trying to sound soothing; his hands are kind anchors, running over Sebastian’s head, rubbing Sebastian’s back and shoulder. They’re sitting up in bed, Chris’s back against the velvet cushion of the headboard. Sebastian’s more or less in Chris’s lap, being encircled and encompassed by care. The light’s serene and grey and rain-washed, an afternoon behind a waterfall, kept private just for them,

Chris goes on, “I’m so sorry, Seb, I know you’re sore, I should’ve been more gentle—too rough, cleaning you up just now, I know, it’s okay, you can cry, whatever you need, let it out, I’m right here, I love you,” and his voice shakes a fraction, and Sebastian takes a deep breath against Chris’s collarbone and whispers, “I love you.”

Chris stops talking. His hand hesitates, partway through petting Sebastian’s hair.

“I’m okay,” Sebastian says, feeling the words as they leave his mouth and brush tattoo-ink and naked skin and Chris’s chest. “Nothing even hurts. Just kind of…a lot.”

Chris exhales. Gets back to petting. “Yeah, okay. Still. That looked…intense. You should rest.”

“I am.” He wriggles around so he can look at Chris, while staying tucked into the strength of one heroic arm. “This’s nice. I just need you. I don’t need the moon.”

“Oh god,” Chris says, “you heard that.”

“Actually,” Sebastian amends, thinking about it, “if you do figure out how to give me the moon, then yeah. I’ll take it. We could vacation there. Moon sex could happen.”

“Moon sex would totally happen.” Chris touches Sebastian’s chin, cups his face: a touch that’s reverent, amazed, hopeful. “It’d be…out of this world.”

“Terrible. You didn’t even go for the obvious joke about _coming_ in for a landing. I meant it, you know. About loving your place, back in Boston.”

“Did you?” Chris sighs, skims a thumb over Sebastian’s cheek: collecting thoughts and tear-tracks, perhaps. “I know you love it here. And I want you to be happy.”

“Amazingly enough,” Sebastian informs him, “you make me happy. Wherever you are. I still want to come back here sometimes. With you.”

“We can totally do that.”

The storm, outside, shouts in jubilation. Wind and raindrops do a quick waltz along the windowpane. Chris’s arms cuddle Sebastian even more securely, in reply.

“What you said,” Sebastian answers, turning to kiss Chris’s hand, “about being mine. I’m yours, too, just as much. Kinda always have been.”

“I love you,” Chris says. “I think I always have. All along. Since the first day we met. I know I tell you, we say it, but, like…I _really_ love you. Like…the rest of my life, wanting to wake up next to you, wanting to see you smile every morning, kind of love you, Seb.”

“I know,” Sebastian says. “I know you do, Chris. I _know_.”

“You do?”

“Yeah.” He puts out a hand. Sets it over Chris’s heart. “All mine.”

“All yours.” Chris is smiling everyplace: light hovers in the blue of his eyes, the curve of his lips, the flicker of eyelashes as he blinks. “So maybe…we can sort of officially move in together? Not like we have to announce it, not like it’ll even change that much, we practically live together anyway, but…”

“Yes,” Sebastian says. “Yes, I want to move in. I want to make it official. I’m asking. If, y’know, you want me to ask you for things.”

“Oh, fuck.” Chris makes an expression that would’ve been a facepalm if his arms weren’t occupied with holding Sebastian. “We’re never gonna let that go, are we.”

“Not any time soon, no. This’s me asking you to buy me a book. There’s some Foucault I haven’t read.”

“Yep. Just send me the titles.” Chris loops a finger into Sebastian’s hair. Tugs lightly. “Can I also buy you a corset?”

“So, about that.” Sebastian waves a worn-out hand vaguely in the direction of his open gift box. “I’ve got like four more outfits. One of which, yeah, totally a corset. Red.”

“Fuck yeah,” Chris proclaims, loudly and with passion.

“Fuck _me_ ,” Sebastian corrects, and Chris laughs. Sebastian tosses in, “You had plans for that, right? Not right now. Obviously. Later. After pizza.”

“Later. Definitely. Yeah. And…thanks.”

“For what?”

“Letting me see this,” Chris says. “You. Liking this. Sharing it with me.”

“I do like it,” Sebastian agrees. “Even more with you. I—oh, fuck.”

“What?”

“Um…photo shoot. Like…there’ll be pictures. Of me in lingerie. Not that I care about that, I like the idea, that’s me and I had fun, but every time we see that magazine I’m gonna think about you telling me to come all over myself, in my pretty panties, while you watch.”

Chris’s face goes through at least five emotions, and settles on, “Me too. How many copies do you think we can buy?”

“A lot,” Sebastian suggests contentedly, “and this is me _asking_ you for them. We can recreate some poses at home, too. In _our_ bedroom.”

And his open box, scarlet corset right on top, perks up at the words. Like him, it loves the way that sounds.

**Author's Note:**

> So that got a bit more kinky than I'd originally planned! Also, just imagine those pictures. And Chris buying every copy of the magazine he can get his hands on. And then buying Seb some new lingerie, because they've thoroughly despoiled the first sets.


End file.
